Sparks
by twentythird
Summary: The Queen of Albion's had enough of Reaver's simpering, sickening proposals in the throne room. It's time she yanked him aside and told him-with force, if it comes to that-what it means for Albion if he doesn't shape up. Oneshot.


Author's Note: I know that's not what Sand Furies are. And I know it's long. It just popped into my head one day because the more I played, the more I wanted the Queen to let loose and yell until he got it all through his thick head. So here we are. Enjoy.

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**Sparks**

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That sodding _bastard._

I willed my features to stillness, then made myself smile genuinely as applause filled my ears. I could feel my heart pounding with anger, couldn't relax the tightness in my fingers.

I had to stop him.

The throne room buzzed as the applause died down, and Page met my eyes, her grin and level gaze indicating that she knew I'd keep my promise. Her attention was drawn when Reaver reached over to shake her hand in congratulations. My fists clenched—his sincerity was as false as my anger was real.

"Sir Walter," I said as I stood.

"Milady." He was in earshot in an instant, pride gleaming in his calm brown eyes.

I felt the anger lose its edge, and couldn't stop a return smile. Walter had that effect on people. "Walter, I'm going to speak with Page for a moment. Will you ask Reaver to stay, and take him to my study?"

"Of course." He nodded once, and stepped off the dais toward Reaver, who stood smirking while Page's supporters congratulated her. As I slowly made my way down to them, I watched Walter speak with Reaver, felt an adrenaline jolt as Reaver's sharp blue eyes snapped to mine. An eyebrow twitched, and then his smirk deepened; he bowed slightly to Walter, and allowed himself to be led out.

"Page," I said, having reached her at last, and she smiled, reaching out to clasp my hand; I gripped it with both of mine. "Congratulations. I can't wait to see the people of Bowerstone Industrial living in better conditions."

"Your majesty is kind to remember her promise," she said as she glanced at her companions. "We will never forget it."

"Of course I remembered," I said, trying to meet the eyes of each wide-eyed Industrialists around her. "Be sure you come to me if Reaver or any of the new governors gives you trouble."

As we spoke more, the throne room cleared, and I was at last able to dismiss myself.

Save for my silent guard, Daren, I stood alone in the hallway. Automatically my fists clenched; the heat and rage I felt a few minutes ago resurfaced. My palms itched to cast a spell, to feel the padded grip of my sword hilt against my fingers. My gauntlet, sparking slightly as I reined in my emotion, was hidden by my long sleeve, but my sword was in my quarters, two long knives thrust in my belt instead.

They'd have to do, if it came to that.

I moved.

Outside the closed door to my study I paused again, sucking in a deep breath to steady myself. If I exploded in a rage, he'd have control of the fight, and I'd have lost. "Daren," I said to the still-silent guard. "It's fine if you wait out here. And—and don't enter unless I call for you. Tell Walter the same when he comes out."

"Yes, milady."

I opened one of the doors; the two men stood across from one another over the map table. Reaver held his cane propped to the side, hat at a ridiculously jaunty angle, while Walter stood tall and surly. They both bowed when they saw me, although Reaver's was more of a nod.

A soft _whuff _drew my attention, and I looked right as a mass of black and white fur stretched before the fire, clearly having just woken from a nap. He padded over to me and pressed his cold nose into my palm.

I scratched him behind his ears as I turned my attention back to the two men. "Walter, thank you. I'll let you know if I need you."

"Very good, milady. Carry on." As he passed me to leave, he lifted an eyebrow in question, but said nothing. I looked over, and my heart jolted again to find Reaver staring directly into my eyes with unsettling intensity. The door clicked closed behind me.

Reaver's smile widened. "_Well_," he said. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise. A private audience with the queen."

I smiled, too, every nerve on edge. Somehow I kept my voice light, even sincere, as I drew closer. "I'd think you'd be used to royal company."

"Your father was _not_ royal company." He lifted his cane, let it fall point-first, then caught it on the bounce with the opposite hand. He leaned a hip against the map table. "He would much rather've rescued witless peasants than signed decrees all day."

"Perhaps he had the right of it."

"Perhaps." His eyes instantaneously flicked from my boots, up my breeches, over my tunic, my neck, and back to my eyes. "And perhaps not."

I resisted the urge to rest a hand on a knife hilt, and instead slowly headed for the other side of the table. From the corner of my eye I watched fur retreat to the hearth rug again. "He had good things to say about you, if you can believe it."

"I do. The man had good things to say about everyone. Very trusting, your father was."

I had no desire to reflect on how my father's trust in Reaver had backfired in the early stages, how Reaver had cheated him later during his rule.

"Ah. Brushed a nerve, have I?" He met my gaze, smirking still, as I lifted my chin. "But you haven't brought me here to trade stories of the golden days of Albion, have you." It wasn't a question. "Do explain yourself, highness."

I braced my hands on the edge of the map table, thanking Avo I'd remembered to lace my shirtstrings higher this morning.

Eyes narrowing, I nearly spat the words. "I wanted to ask whether you'll consider withdrawing your campaign of unceasingly behaving like an infantile pillock."

He laughed, genuine merriment shining in his eyes, heart tattoo crinkling revoltingly. I did not smile. I held steady.

"My dear highness," he said, using his free hand to gently dab the corner of one eye, still chuckling. "You've quite the sense of humor."

_WHAM_.

His eyebrows shot up; the dagger formerly at my right hip was now embedded hilt-deep somewhere in Millfields. Slowly letting go of it, I stood straighter, my eyes never leaving his, heart thrumming with the thrill of action. "I will not play games with you again," I said, anger keeping my voice deadly low, noting that he now stood very still, mirth gone. "Every option you have offered me for the last six months leads only to corruption—poverty—_prostitution_—and I will not have it. By the gods, Reaver—the Hero of Skill is no fool, and you've had two sodding _centuries _to brood. Surely you must have one idea rattling around in that thick skull that doesn't detract from the treasury and still helps my people."

It was his turn grip the table, blue eyes sharp on mine. There was no smirk, no presumptuous posture; I barely recognized his voice when he spoke, it was so humorless. "Highness, your naivety astounds me. When that beast of a manservant raised you, he neglected to discuss the true way of the world—that every man with a business of his own is after no one's _good_ but his own. Such as it is with me—your sniveling precious peasants do nothing but stand in the way of profit, what with their horrendous work ethic and dockside diseases. No one else would oppose them—so I simply offer an alternative, as the loudest and only voice for the opposition—and the opposition is where the real profit lies. That is how it works. That is how it _always_ works."

"I'm well aware. I'm asking you to think of better solutions. Unfortunately for me, yours is the only company big enough to handle my requests, so you'll profit from my decisions no matter what I do. What I _need_, Reaver, are options that strengthen Albion, and strengthen my people."  
"Your people." He all but rolled his eyes. "Your entire damned lineage and their ridiculous notion of helping even the beggars in the—"

"You have no idea what I'm up against," I said quietly, beating back the surging in my veins. "Why I need the country stronger. Why I need—"

"Oh, _don't_ go simpering on about the glory of Albion, or I'll positively—"

The anger snapped and I hooked my fingers under the table; the map jolted off its base, a rain of sparks and fire from my gauntlet trailing as it thundered to the floor. I leaped, jerked my foot up and out; Reaver dodged, my spell-hand recharging as I went, and suddenly my back slammed against the ground; I flung my hand up just in time to see a flash of metal, and froze.

The cold mouth of his pistol dug deep into a loop of shirtstring, pressing it to my skin right over my heart, while my glowing right hand all but held him up, our noses inches apart, my palm digging into his white jacket over _his_ heart. I felt it pounding hard beneath my hand, felt solid muscle shift. His left knee shifted, jammed against the inside of my thigh, and I was vaguely aware of his right hand forcing my left elbow hard to the floor—that's how he'd grabbed me from mid-air.

I was panting. He was smiling grimly, hatless, a sweep of hair hanging over his brow. I could see the sparks from my gauntlet reflected in his eyes, we were so close. "You're quick, Highness."

It took me a moment to register the deadly, guttural growls beside us. "_No_," I said firmly, glancing away from Reaver just long enough to make eye contact with the pup beside us, crouched low with teeth bared. "Go on!"

He sat, and stopped growling, but didn't move away.

"Highness," Reaver murmured, a lethal calm in his voice, "I take attempts on my life very seriously, and I do not advise you to try it again. _Explain yourself_."

"Reaver," I said, his heart thrumming under my hand, "if you would just listen to one ruddy _word _without launching into some sarcastic tirade, I would like to bloody _tell you_."

He leaned even closer, stopping me short. I could smell the barest tang of good brandy on his breath, the clean scent of his clothes. I could have counted every hair in his raised eyebrow. "_Speak_."

I took a shaky breath, forcing his pistol up an inch. "The Crawler is coming to Albion."

I don't know what I expected, but his heart jolted under my hand, particularly hard, and his blue eyes darkened. The barrel of the Dragonstomper pushed further into my ribs as his leather glove creaked; I had to gasp for breath. After a moment he said, "I would like to make you a deal."

"A _wha—_HACK_—"_ as he pressed the gun again.

"_You_remove your hand from my person. _I_shall remove my pistol. We will then stand and pretend to be civilized people while you explain exactly what it was you just said. Would to agree to such an arrangement?"

I hesitated, wondering if he was legitimately insane, but he was already easing the pressure on my ribs. Gritting my teeth, his eyes never leaving mine, I slowly let the red glow fade from the gauntlet, and took my hand back. With a half smile, he pulled the pistol away, and lithely eased himself to his feet. I pushed myself to my elbows as he holstered the gun, brushing sweat from my forehead. To my surprise, he offered one gloved hand, and I took it, letting the startlingly tight grip pull me easily to my feet.

In an instant a cold nose was pressing into my free hand; I let go of Reaver's and scratched the whimpering pup behind his ears. "Shush," I muttered, and the whimpers died out.

Reaver was now leaning against the back of one of the love seats, his cane back in one hand, other hand over his pistol, brows low. "Explain."

So I did. I told him about the resistance going to Aurora, the cave, Walter, that _thing_—and Teresa, and her warning, how she'd helped. I knew he knew Teresa—she was part of my father's tales, anyway, but Reaver didn't move. He just stood there and listened, that usual infuriating smugness missing completely.

"And it's coming here," I said finally. "Teresa predicted it like she predicted my father's path, and my rule. And it will be here in _eight months._It's coming to Albion—" I paused, not trusting my voice, and swallowed hard. "—and I need solutions, Reaver, that don't depend on weakening my people. I need every last one of them strong to face what's coming. _Do you understand?"_

He didn't speak for a few moments. Then finally, he ran a hand through his dark hair, causing more to spill over his forehead. "I'd hoped never to see or hear from that _thing_ again."

It didn't register for a second. "Again?"

"That expedition your infamous brother embarked upon a few years ago. To Aurora. I was there, as an advisor. We were scouting for new allies—new land. It. . ." he trailed off, crossing his arms over his chest, cane dangling from one hand. I wondered if this was the first time he'd ever been at a loss for words. He seemed to sense this, and jerked his head back up. "Highness, what did you _think_ Sand Furies were?"

A chill shot up my spine. "What?"

"Aurorans, tainted by the darkness. They wander too far in the desert, the—_Crawler_—ensnares them, and they do its evil bidding in the hopes that it will release them. Which of course, it won't."

I shuddered. "So you know, then. You understand what we're up against."

Reaver sighed. "I suppose I might."

My gauntlet sparked. "Don't you—"

"All _right_, highness. I'd hate to see you destroy any more defenseless cartographical marvels. I understand you perfectly. The Crawler is coming to Albion, and you need more agreeable solutions. You will get them."

I blinked. "Will I?"

He inclined his head slightly. "Yes. You will. I shall begin work as soon as I return to Bower Lake."

I didn't believe him. "Give me a reason to believe you'll keep that promise."

He smiled. It was almost charming. "I've already given one. It would be terribly difficult for Reaver Industries to make any margin of profit without a populace in the first place. Don't you think?"  
I didn't know whether to thank him or rain fire over his head. "Reaver, thank you. If you like, we can discuss your ideas before the next public ruling."

He bent his knees, sweeping his hat from the floor. "As long as it doesn't involve your deft little fingers charging a spell against my heart, it might be arranged." He placed the hat on his head, tilting it to that absurd angle once more. "Are we quite finished?"  
"Quite."

"Very well. As always, your majesty, it has been the most exquisite of pleasures." He bowed, sharp blue eyes never leaving mine.

It was still unsettling. I headed for the study doors, and held one open for him. "I'll have Walter escort you out."

"How very kind of you."

"I thought so. Walter!"

As Reaver slipped past, I thought his eyes lingered over my neck for a moment, until they snapped up and he smiled again, and he was gone.

Closing the door behind me, I glanced down. The red outline of the mouth of a pistol was imprinted in my skin over my heart; I probed it with my fingers to find it tender and sore—it would bruise.

"Damn you," I muttered, and went to put the map table back on its pedestal, hoping against hope that he'd keep his word.


End file.
